


an ongoing love

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series), Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: Alternate Universes, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Headcanons/Mini fics, Return of the previously deleted AUs, plus new ones!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: “Well, it seems to me that the best relationships - the ones that last - are frequently the ones that are rooted in friendship. You know, one day you look at the person and you see something more than you did the night before. Like a switch has been flicked somewhere. And the person who was just a friend is... suddenly the only person you can ever imagine yourself with.”(Or, all the times, all the ways, that friendship between Brad and Claire became something more.)
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 40
Kudos: 103





	1. harry potter au

**Author's Note:**

> this is a collection of fic ideas/concepts that i've had stored up for a while now and realistically won't become fully fledged fics (even though I love and adore them) so i'm just compiling them all here for your enjoyment.
> 
> each snippet will vary in rating--there are smutty chapters! so just y'know read with caution i guess if that's not your thing.

Brad’s not a big fashion guy—jeans or cargo pants, t-shirt and flannel, comfortable shoes, hat. Simple, casual, easy. But Claire? Claire is a fucking fashion model. She gets sent jumpsuits and overalls, dresses with complicated twists and ties, shirts with laces and frills (“Brad, it’s not a shirt. It’s a _blouse.")_ The point is, everything looks good on Claire. Everything she wears makes him want to immediately take it off her.

So Claire teaches him how to undo her overalls because he’s impatient and fumbling with them and he wants them off her _now._

“It’s kinda like this.” She bites her bottom lip before reaching for his jeans, taking her time unbuttoning his pants. She makes special effort to scratch at the skin of his stomach and press her palm against his straining cock, grinning teasingly when he makes a strangled noise and grabs her by the strap of her overalls and tugs at it futilely, brain deliriously blank and unfocused.

“See? You just have to push the button through the loop, Brad.”

She pushes at his jeans, steps forward and palms his erection, applying just the right amount of pressure for Brad to lose his mind. He reaches for the straps of her overalls, tugs at the place where the button and fasteners are tangled, growing increasingly frustrated, mind going blank as she continues to stroke him.

“Ya gotta get out of this thing, Claire. Christ, I gotta touch you.”

Claire is a tease, though, and instead lifts up on her toes to nip and lick and kiss at the underside of his jaw, tongue licking at the rough sandpaper like texture of his stubble. They both shiver and she takes his hand, guides it to her chest and forces him to cup her breast through the thick, denim material of the overalls.

“If you want to touch me, you have to undo it, Brad.”

He growls, frustrated, and leans down, hooks his hands around the back of her thighs and hauls her up over his shoulder, ignoring the way she laughs and yips and clings to him.

If he’s got to do a fucking puzzle to get her out of her clothes, she’s at least going to be pinned beneath him on the bed while he gets to work.

(He tells her in no uncertain terms when they’re done—breathless and slick with sweat and their fluids smeared on the inside of her thighs—that she cannot accept any more clothes from that particular designer.)

________

The pair of jeans that she’s been taking out for a test spin break him. He spends most of his free time tilting his head and admiring the way the denim curves around her backside, finds ways to trace his finger along her waist band and dip into her back pocket. 

Whoever said all jeans were created equal have clearly not seen _these_ jeans on Claire Saffitz. 

That night, she’s on the bed and her hair is a mess and her shirt is off and her bra is hanging from his fingertips for a half second before it joins her shirt on the other side of the room. She whines and pulls him closer by his belt loops and he grins at her and presses a kiss to her mouth before shimmying down the bed, teasing her.

“Patience,” he mutters as he kisses his way down her stomach and plays with the button of her jeans. “Do you know how hard it was for me to see you in these all day? Huh?”

She huffs impatiently, whines his name and tells him to stop teasing. He shakes his head and kisses each jut of her hip bones and tongues the band of her jeans.

“Fuckin’ criminal,” he says before slowly unbuttoning and unzipping his new favorite jeans and peels them off of her, letting the fabric join the rest of her clothes in the corner of his bedroom.

He reaches up to cup her breast, thumb dragging across her nipple. She groans impatiently, covering his hand on her breast and squeezing, silently asking for a rougher touch. “Brad,” she gasps. “Please.”

He drags his hand down her stomach and likes the way little goosebumps pimple her skin and he kisses her stomach and each hip.

“Please what?” he growls from his place between her legs, nuzzling at her thighs. 

She huffs but then sighs when he finally takes her jeans and panties off and gets his mouth on her like she’s his favorite meal. She tries to arch up into his mouth, push her hips closer to his tongue and lips, but he settles a big hand across her waist and holds her down to the bed. 

This is on his terms.

Payback’s a bitch and all that.

________

The tables are turned, though, when a designer sends him a pair of jeans.

They’re drunk at the office one night in one of those parties Bon Appétit sometimes throws and Claire thinks he looks particularly good in the new jeans that he’s wearing. Normally he’s in more utility style pants but today he’s in jeans that pull nicely over his hips and ass and crotch. She’s trying hard not to look (okay, no, she isn’t, but that’s the alcohol at play).

But there’s a sizable bulge pressing against the denim of his jeans and her eyes drift down and she licks her lips and adjusts herself in her chair, pressing her thighs together. Because her mind now has a very helpful visual of what he keeps in his pants and it’s an easy leap to fantasize about the size of him, the way he’d feel inside of her, the way he’d feel in her hand and mouth, the way he’d completely fill her...

“Earth to Claire???”

Molly’s giggles and hand waving in front of her face bring her out of her fantasy land and she realizes she’s stopped just trying to subtly catch glimpses of Brad’s crotch and has just been staring. Heat floods her cheeks and she risks a glance at brad who is focusing his attention completely on her, eyes dark and knowing. He looks completely relaxed leaning against the counter, beer in hand. And then a slow, lazy smile crosses his face.

“I think Claire was off in fantasy land,” he teases. But his voice is husky and she bites her lip. He knows exactly what she was doing, what she was thinking.

Later, he’ll corner her, crowd against her and get his lips near her ear and dig his fingers into her hip and ask her what she was thinking about. She’ll babble and try and avoid telling him but then he’ll step her back against the wall and press their hips together. He’s hard against her and she clutches at his chest, stares up at him with her lips parted. Brad’s looking at her with dark, intense eyes and she knows they were always destined to end up right here. She carefully rolls her hips right back against his and likes the way he shudders, the way his hand curls into a fist on the wall where he’s caged her in.

She’s very conveniently wearing a dress so when he finally kisses her and she pushes up against him to wrap her arms around his neck and get their hips closer together right where she wants him—because she’s never felt empty before, had always scoffed at romance novels that claimed the woman needed to be filled, but _god_ she wants Brad inside her, wrapped around her, against her. His hand slides up her thigh and pushes her dress up around her hips and gets her further back against the wall, forces her legs apart so he can get between her legs and press himself against the center of her.

Even through the denim of his jeans, he can feel how hot and wet and damp she is for him. He breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against hers with a groan. “Fuck, Claire.”

He thrusts lightly against her and likes the way she shudders and whimpers, clutches at him, asking without asking for _more more more_.

He kisses her gently then, tries to ease the flames burning out of control between them. They’re still at work and he won’t fuck her here against the wall. 

“Want you,” she pants against his mouth, hitches her legs over his hip and tries to climb him, wants to get closer.

Her hands grab at his shirt and tug it loose from the waistband of his jeans, gets her fingernails scratching against his stomach. He jumps at her touch, presses against her and she can feel him harden further, twitching, in his jeans.

She grins and nips at his throat in triumph. She did that.

“Let’s get out of here.”

When they finally stumble into her apartment, it takes coaxing from Claire to get him to completely let go and lose control. She’s beneath him, legs around his waist and heels digging into his ass to get him to fuck her harder, wants his hands on her a little rougher, wants to feel him.

“You won’t break me,” she says breathlessly, sinks her nails into his shoulders. 

He shudders and clutches the bedsheets where he’s bracing himself above her. She kisses his chest and shoulder and throat and tries to coax him.

“Don’t wanna hurt you, Claire,” he confesses. It softens something in her because Brad is always there for her, always protecting her, always making sure she’s okay.

But this is one place she doesn’t need his protection, trusts implicitly he will take care of her even as he loses himself inside of her, takes what he needs for once. 

She threads her fingers into his hair and tugs him down, kisses him softly and presses them together chest to toe. 

“You won’t hurt me,” she reassures him. “I just want you,” she reiterates, pleading.

He kisses her again, fiercely, and drops his forehead to her shoulder, braces himself against her hip and the headboard, shudders, and nods. 

The next few minutes are a frantic rush of movements, the sounds of their bodies slapping together, her sighs and moans, the creak of the bed frame, and the soft growls at the back of his throat as he finally lets go and loses himself in her, stops holding back.

(Jeans are added to the heavy rotation in both of their wardrobes.)


	2. hogwarts au

Claire tickles the pear as Christina had told her to do all those years ago and slips down into the warm busy kitchen beneath the castle. In the moments when she can’t believe she’s actually here—a witch about to graduate and join wizarding society—she escapes into the place where she’s always felt most settled: the kitchen. 

It had been her place of refuge and creativity: mixing manual labor as her mother had taught her with newly developed and growing magical skills, weaving together flavor enhancement charms and texture altering spells to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary. The house elves had originally ignored her, eyed her with the slightest tinge of distrust, but as she’d pressed them for more information about how their magic worked in combination with food preparation, as they tried her sweets and cakes and realized what she was trying to accomplish, they warmed to her, offering tiny squeaky-voiced praise and an endless supply of iced coffee (something they’d begun specially making for her).

The Hogwarts kitchens were more her home than any Ravenclaw dorm room could ever be. 

She’s for once not in the mood to bake, today. She wants to learn more from Zinky about how he managed to make the perfect lamb roast and the crispiest potatoes and the flakiest pumpkin pasties she’d ever had last night.

To her surprise, though, the kitchen is already occupied. She’s even more surprised to find that it’s one of the seventh year troublemakers, Brad Leone. Brad had been a student she was only peripherally aware of: the best Keeper the Gryffindor Quidditch team had seen since Oliver Wood, an average spellcaster with a penchant for charming his way into good grades rather than earning them, and, she knew, he was friends with practically everyone in the castle—from the students, to the professors, to the ghosts. 

(She also knew he had a laugh that carried across the stone hallways, blue eyes that made her blush if she thought about them too long, and long, thick fingers that wrapped around his wand in a way that made her feel hot all over.)

“Well, well, well,” he says with a grin, looking up at her from over a bubbling pot over the crackling stove fire. “Look who joined us. Head Girl Saffitz.”

She crosses her arms over chest, unimpressed. This was supposed to be _her_ time in the kitchen to relax and unwind. “What are you doing here?” 

He raises an eyebrow at the pointed question and she flushes. She’s not supposed to be here either, in fairness. 

One of the house elves comes over to greet her, offering her up her favorite biscuit and a cup of tea. From across the kitchen, Brad grins. “Not your first time here then?”

“What? You thought you were the only one who figured out how to get down here.”

“No,” he concedes. “Just surprised you did. Students aren’t supposed to be down here and, well, you got a reputation for bein’ a rule follower, Claire.”

(She ignores the rush of butterflies that he knows her name and that he says it in that irreverent, boyish way that makes her cheeks warm in a way that has nothing to do with the kitchen fires.)

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she counters, looking defiant.

His smile broadens and he drops eye contact with her, turning his attention back to his bubbling pot, before looking at her again, something sharp in his eye. “Yeah, I’m gettin’ that impression.” 

He cocks his head to the side and points to the empty space to his left, lights the fire beneath the unused cauldron with a flick of his wand, and meets her eye. “You here to cook or not, Saffitz?”

She glares, pushes up the sleeves of her robes, ties her hair back, and storms over to him. If he wants to cook together, she’ll show him exactly what she can do.

________________

(It turns out that for all of her pristine, precise measurements that have served her well in Potions and in the kitchen, Brad Leone knows a completely different magic: one of intuition and instinct that guides his use of herbs and spices. He’s a cocky bastard and she _definitely_ isn’t intrigued by that confidence at all. Mostly.

But she is intrigued by the temperature spell he uses on the lamb roast, a quiet mutter and a circular motion of his wand reveal an iridescent temperature reading above the meat that makes her gasp with envy.

Her mouth drops open and he grins at her. 

“Show me,” she demands. Before adding a petulant, “Please.” 

“Alright, Claire, but only ‘cause you asked me so nice.”

Brad is unfailingly kind and polite in the face of her snarky attitude and she feels a stab of remorse for the way she’s been acting towards him. It’s not his fault that she’s got stress management problems and an unrequited crush on him.

She holds up a finger and dashes to the oven to grab a still-warm pumpkin pasty—something that she _knows_ is incredible and is a magic all its own—and returns, offering it up to him in peace. “Trade you a pasty for a spell?”

He eyes the pastry, hesitating, before taking it and placing it on the wooden worktable beside him. “Deal.”

[She finds out later that he _hates_ pastries and cakes. She can’t find it in herself to be outraged at that because Brad Leone showed her an incredible spell and had to hold her hand to demonstrate it. It’s a win all around.])

Maybe sharing a kitchen space with Brad isn’t too bad, after all. 

________________

“What do you mean you don’t know how to fly?”

She huffs at him before stirring the pot on the stove in front of them. The Hogwarts kitchen fires roar happily beside them, crackling. The house elves have learned by this point to leave them be, only occasionally stopping by the odd pair of witch and wizard to drop off tea and biscuits.

This is their new normal every Friday night. 

“Brad, I don’t need to learn how to fly. There’s port keys and apparating and Floo Powder.”

“No, no, no. Claire, those things require ministry approval. What are you gonna do—Okay, no, put the spoon down this is important.”

She laughs at how serious he’s being right now and does as instructed, leaning her hip on the workstation and facing him.

“Okay, go on. I’m listening. Wait! Is this going to be about wand holsters and having your wand at the ready?”

“That is important,” he agrees with a grin. “But stay with me.”

“Brad, I don’t wanna learn to fly—“

“Okay, but Claire, say you’re out, y’know, running or whatever, and a freakin’ Dark Wizard comes at ya and starts chasin’ ya! What are you gonna do?”

“Uhhh...”

“You’re gonna get murdered!”

“Brad!” she says through her laughter.

“So what you gotta do is pull your tiny broom out, one _engorgio_ application later, and bam! You’re flying away. Way faster—and safer— than apparating under pressure.”

She just shakes her head fondly at him and turns back to her pot, stirring. “Okay,” she concedes, a smile curling at her lips. She glances at him, stomach full of butterflies, when she asks, “You give lessons?”

He takes his place by her side and bumps his foot against hers. “For you? Any time.”

________________

The first time Brad kisses her, it’s in the middle of the Quidditch pitch after their first flying lesson. She’d landed with a stumble into his arms, laughing with exhilaration and a tinge of fear. She _really_ didn’t like heights. 

But he’d caught her easily, big arms wrapping around her waist to steady her with a proud, “Easy, Claire. I gotcha.”

The laughter dies off when she looks up at him, realizes how close she is to his face. Without permission, her fingers curl into the front of his robes and tug him down or pulls herself up, she’s not sure which. All she knows is her lips are pressing sweetly, softly against his and it’s the best thing she’s ever felt—better than magic, better than cooking, better than Firewhiskey. 

Brad must feel the same because he pushes his fingers into her hair, cradles her jaw in his hand and gently deepens the kiss, pressing for more.

It’s all too much for her and magic crackles out of her hair and fingertips, wraps around his wrists and neck in bright, electric blue sparks.

He pulls back with wide eyes, watches her magic wrap itself around him and fill him with warmth and everything about Claire that makes him stop and stare at her.

“Oh my god, Brad, I’m so sorry. I’ve never lost control like that. I-I didn’t even know my magic could _do_ that.”

She’s horrified, embarrassed. Her hair falls in front of her face to hide her and she’s just thinking about testing Hogwarts’ _No Apparating_ rule when Brad tucks her hair behind her ear and tilts her face up.

“I just think you and your magic really, _really_ like me is all.” It’s cheeky and boastful and exactly what she needs to hear. She smacks his chest and he catches her hand, holds it to his chest. 

The second time they kiss, her magic crackles and wraps around them—yellow and sparking. But this time, when she tentatively digs her fingers into his hair, wraps a stray curl around her finger and tugs gently just because she can, scratches her nails gently down the side of his neck in a way that makes him shiver and audibly groan her name, it’s Brad’s magic that rushes around them, bright and red and shining, entwining with hers.

They aren’t in any hurry to control it, though—the magic or the itch beneath their skin to just _touch_ each other. Claire’s pretty certain their colors, their magic, _they_ belong together, anyway.


	3. harvard au

When Brad got dragged along with the rest of his crew on the Harvard Library restoration job, he thought he was in for a lot of hoity-toity, uptight nerds side-eyeing the help. At 6’4”, loud and boisterous, and unable to spell half the words printed in gold lettering along the spines of the books in the library, Brad Leone was in no danger of being mixed up for a Harvard student. 

But the pretty girl pulling her grey-streaked hair out and making the most quiet, controlled _agonized_ groans of frustration is really, really making him wish he had applied himself in school more for the chance to be here with her. 

It’s been three days of painstakingly careful restoration of centuries old wood and bookcases and he’s receive more than his fair share of slaps on the the back of the head from the foreman to pay attention. 

“Leone, that piece of wood you’re holding is worth more than your life. So keep your eyes on the job and not the pretty ladies tryin’ to do their work.”

Brad’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment—not at being called out by his boss, but by being called out so _loudly._ Across the aisle, the girl whose hands and fingers he was admiring looked sharply up at them, mouth parted in surprise. 

The look on her face—the shock and surprise that he’d been looking at her, interested in her—reminded him sharply that he did _not_ belong here and she was probably wondering who she had to call to report his ass and get him removed from the property. 

Scowling, Brad kept his head down and focused on the task at hand, trying to push the memory of dark brown eyes and pink lips and pale skin from his mind. He had a job to do and in a few days, they’d be heading back home and that would be the end of any fantasy he may be entertaining. 

______________

“Um, excuse me?”

Brad looked up to find the girl from the library standing over him from where he knelt on the floor, putting in the finishing hardware and brushing the first layer of clear sealant onto the bottom bookshelf. 

The rest of his crew had long since disappeared, leaving Brad—the youngest of them all—to finish up the grunt work of their project. It was tough shit but that’s just the way the world shook out sometimes. 

Scrambling to his feet, Brad felt surprise at how _small_ she was, just barely coming up to his chest.

“Hi, yeah, what’s up?”

He cleared his throat and tugged at the hem of his flannel shirt, suddenly acutely aware of every wrinkle, every stain and granule of dirt beneath his fingertips. 

She smiled softly at him, pointing over his shoulder to the stack of books currently being blocked by his toolbox and equipment. “I just need to get to a few of those.”

“Oh, yeah, _yeah,_ here. Shit. You pay a lot of money to get access to these things, huh?” He internally winced, wondering when the hell he’d forgotten to have a conversation with a woman. True, he struggled on the best of days with his vocabulary, but still. He wiped his hands over his pants and made a hasty move to clear a path for her to her books. 

“It’s really not a problem, honestly. It’s just I have this paper due and I need another source and —“ She stopped herself, raising a hand up to her forehead and rubbing at her furrowed brow before shooting him a strained smile. “Sorry, you probably don’t care or want to hear about this.”

She grabbed the third book from the top—something hefty enough that Brad coulda used it as a replacement for the three-pound mallet in his toolbox—and turned on her heel, heading back for the table that she had taken residence up in for the last three days. 

“I do!” he called out to her, taking the moment that was slipping away from him and hauling it back in. “Look, I’m here for you anytime you wanna just, you know, talk to someone. I’m gonna be floatin’ around. I probably won’t understand half the shit you’re talking about but,” he shrugged, grinning boyishly at her, “I’m an _excellent_ listener. Even if Frank said the opposite on my last performance eval.”

She giggled and bit her lip, ducking her head and tucking her grey-streaked hair behind her ear. “You know when I saw you I thought to myself, ‘He looks like an excellent listener,’” she teased in a mock-sage voice, nodding slightly and eyes twinkling. 

Brad felt warmth spread through his chest. This was flirting. This was almost _definitely_ flirting. He may not know how to pronounce half the shit in this library or how exactly the moon pulled the oceans ashore, but _this_ he knew.

He leaned in, stuck his hand out to her. “I’m Brad, by the way.”

“Claire.”

Her hand slipped into his, small and soft in his bigger, rougher hands. 

______________

“What! What do you mean Leonardo was the best turtle? He was such a responsible stick in the mud. Claire, Michelangelo—ole Mikey—was _clearly_ the superior turtle: funny, cool under pressure, and _hello!_ He loves pizza. Case closed. Mikey is the best.” 

Claire giggled and nabbed a fry off his plate, popping it into her mouth like this was something they did every day and not something they were doing for the first time, like they hadn’t just formally met a few hours ago. 

The decision to abandon their respective work—a paper about the relationship between the sugar trade, colonization, and the rise of Christianity (Claire) and wood staining (Brad)—had been the easiest decision of their lives. Claire’s stomach had grumbled loudly (“Sorry, I haven’t had lunch yet. I’m _starving.”)_ and that was all it took for Brad to ask her to the old school diner across the street.

Now, hours later, they were still in the same sticky, vinyl booth slurping down chocolate shakes and crispy, salty fries and the sloppiest, most delicious burger either of them had ever had, arguing the merits of each of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. 

“You _would_ like Michelangelo,” she concedes, a teasing twinkle in her eye. “I pegged you as a Michelangelo guy from the start.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, leaning forward intrigued. “Oh yeah? What else did you peg me for?”

A pretty pink flush crept over the curve of her cheeks and down the column of her neck in a way that made Brad’s mouth simultaneously water and go dry. Her eyes met his, looking suddenly shy. 

“Can I be honest with you?”

He nodded, “Of course.”

“I’m not the kind of person who just abandons her homework on a whim to get dinner with a stranger. I’ve never done _anything_ like this before.”

Beneath the table, her foot nudged the toe of his steel-toed boots and he nudged right back, encouraging her. 

“But—god, this is going to sound so cheesy—I just got a sense about you.”

“A sense?” he questioned, their feet still nudging and wiggling against each other’s beneath the table. Playing footsie with Claire definitely hadn’t been on his to-do list today, but he was very glad it was happening regardless. 

Claire shrugged, looking bashful. “I liked your laugh,” she admitted. “And—“

“And?” he prompted, wondering what else she was going to say.

“And I liked the way you were looking at me.”

Their feet stopped moving at the same time and Brad went still, suddenly filled with heat and urgency. Because Claire liked the way he looked at her. _Him_ , a New Jersey boy with a barely-there formal education. 

Across the table, Claire was watching him carefully and he reached out towards her, tugging her hand into his. 

“Can I tell _you_ something?” he asked, rubbing his calloused thumb over the back of her hand, drifting over the curve of her knuckles. 

“Yeah.” She sounded breathless and her eyes were riveted to their joined hands, to the place where he was touching her. 

“I’m liking the way _you’re_ lookin’ at _me_ right now.”

“Brad?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna get out of here?”

______________

“See, this is _exactly_ why institutionalized, private education is fucked, Claire.”

She pressed herself against him, muffling her giggles into his bare chest and tangling her legs with his. Beside her, Brad was working hard to fit all 6’4” of his frame onto the dorm bed beside her. 

“You pay out the ass and you can’t even get a decent sized bed in the place.”

“To be fair,” Claire countered, sliding her hands over his bare chest and scratching down over his abdomen, hand dipping dangerously, teasingly low. Brad groaned, all attempts to curl up on the bed forgotten in lieu of watching Claire’s hand on his body. “This _is_ a decent sized bed for normal people.”

“Uh-huh,” Brad groaned, head falling back against the pillow that smelled of what he now-knew was Claire’s shampoo—strawberry and vanilla. 

He grabbed her hand before she could wrap her fingers around his hardness and pinned her arm above her head, rolling her beneath him and settling between her legs. Her eyes went dark and tempting and he grinned, kissing her soundly, tongue slipping into her mouth to stroke at the roof of her mouth in a way that he learned earlier in the evening made her forget all of her fancy Harvard vocabulary. 

Tiny dorm beds were soon forgotten. Turns out, they were just the right size. 

______________

Three days later, Brad’s crew returned to New Jersey, the job complete and the next project lined up and waiting for them. 

At the train station, Brad stood on the platform and waved goodbye to his friends and coworkers, his arm slung around the shoulder of Claire Saffitz. 

Tuns out Brad Leone _did_ belong at Harvard after all. 


	4. bar au

It’s been exactly two hours since Brad Leone from the Bon Appétit magazine left her bar, taking a few hours of footage of them working together behind her nostalgia-snack themed bar (and more than a few outtakes of Claire bent over giggling as Brad proclaimed every perfect cake _too good._ “Claire! Look, I know you’re the professional or whatever, but I’m tellin’ you, you’re writing off dry cake. Wave of the future.”). 

It’s been two hours since he took his energy and kind eyes and easy smile with him and Claire cannot stop thinking about him. Or talking about him, much to the annoyance of her business partners, Christina and Sohla. 

It's Christina who cracks first, “Claire, if you don’t stop writing and deleting that text to him, I’m going to come over there and send it for you.”

Sohla chimes in, grateful Christina took the first plunge. "Seriously. If you guys hit it off like you think you did, take a chance. What do you have to lose?”

They had been out on a vendor meeting and had missed Brad and the interviewing crew from the Bon Appétit magazine. All of their information so far had come second hand through Claire’s blushes, sighs, and dropping Brad’s name every five minutes. 

“I’m probably reading too much into it,” Claire says, embarrassed, slipping her phone in her back pocket. “He was here on a job. Plus," she adds, looking defiant. "He just seems to the type to be very personable, very friendly. One of those extroverted, make-friends-with-everyone kinda guys."

"Uh-huh. And you're one of those introverted, needs-to-be-dragged-outta-her-shell kinda gals. It's perfect."

"Plus, your food is good, Claire, but it's not drool-worthy good."

"Hey!"

"We're just saying," Sohla soothes, finishing her garnish prep and sliding the citrus wedges into their containers behind the bar. "From the sounds of it, you two hit it off and it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if you actually texted him."

Claire looks uncertain, tucks her hair behind her ear. "But he didn't give me his number in a call-me-so-we-can-go-out way. It was a very business transaction."

Christina rolls her eyes, groans and throws her head back. "Unbelievable," she mutters under her breath before turning her attention back to her friend. "Claire, you have got to start picking up on these things. Even I—"

Christina stops mid-sentence, eyes drifting over Claire's shoulder, a slow, shit-eating grin spreading across her face as she crosses her arms and cocks a hip, nudging Sohla next to her. 

"Even you, what, Chris?"

"Um, hey there."

The voice behind her startles her and Claire jumps and turns, hand over her heart and wide-eyed. 

There, in her bar, no more than a few hours after he left with the BA crew, is Brad Leone.

"Hi," she says, surprised and breathless. He looks good—different. The beanie he was wearing earlier has been replaced with a backwards baseball cap that makes his skin look tan and inviting and he's lost the flannel overshirt, simply wearing a graphic tee. Claire appreciated the flannel, but not as much as she's appreciating the sight of his bare arms, muscular and large. 

Brad grins at her, leaning slightly to the side and waving at Sohla and Christina behind her. Claire snapped into business mode, coming to stand by Christina and Sohla. “Brad, let me introduce you to my partner, Christina.” She placed her hand on Christina’s arm affectionately, indicating who was who. “And this is Sohla.” 

Looking suddenly uncertain, Brad looks between Claire’s hand on Christina’s arm and nods slowly. “Yeah, hi, hi. Um.” He shakes his head as if trying to shake lose something that didn’t quite add up in his mind. 

“Brad?”

Claire’s voice seems to shake him out of it and he snaps back to focus, grinning at her. ”Sorry, I know I just was here and all, but, the magazine wanted to do a follow-up on Friday. If you’re free?”

“Absolutely.”

__________________

Brad fires off a string of texts to Vinny. 

_Boy did we get that one wrong Vincenzo. she has a GIRLFRIEND!!!_

_she's still pretty awesome tho_

_we’re going back friday btw needed an excuse_

_is it weird that i just want to be near her_

_FINE DONT ANSWER ME THIS TRAGEDY IS ALL YOUR FAULT VIN_

__________________

On Friday, Brad does his best to _not_ be attracted to her, to not want to know everything about Claire Saffitz and what makes her tick. She’s off limits and clearly not interested in him the way he thought. 

Because when he asks her on Friday to tell him all about how he and Christina met, there’s a small, soft smile on her face as she talks about meeting in culinary school and how they just hit it off right away. 

“When you know, you know, I guess,” he adds, watching her meticulously roll out puff pastry and fill it with the most aromatic tomato, cheese, and sausage filling. _Homemade hot pockets._ The woman really was perfect. 

Claire looks up from her project, eyes flicking to the camera before settling back on Brad. “Yeah,” she agrees, softly. “Sometimes you meet someone and you just click.”

And there it is again: the heat, the flare of attraction, the _flirting._ But it’s so fucking confusing because Christina had hugged her hello before disappearing into the back to organize their walk-in and take in a delivery for their Friday night rush. Brad had watched them, noting their ease and comfort with each other and the casual touches they exchanged—hugs and Claire lifting the spoon to Christina’s mouth, requesting her opinion and feedback on the Hot Pocket mixture. 

On the other hand, Brad could _feel_ it between them, too. He couldn’t remember the last time someone else made him feel like this: hot and cold all over, feverish and desperate to keep the conversation going, to do anything to keep him near her a little longer (even if it meant something as simple as following her the three feet to the oven and grabbing the door for her). 

The camera is forgotten while they wait for the Hot Pockets to cook. Together they hunch over her workbench as she shows him her playbook of future recipes, ideas she’s playing around with. 

“See this one? I really want to try making Twizzlers.”

“Ooh,” he groans. “That would be like, the _perfect_ , bar food. Oh, Claire, you know what you could do? You could—“

“Use them as straws for the drinks, too?” she interrupts, grinning.

“ _Yes!_ Claire. Brilliant!”

“Thanks,” she says with a blush, tucking her hair behind her ear. But her bashful, pleased expression turns determined. “I just need to figure out how to rig up something to extrude it but keep the hollow center and I haven’t quite worked it out yet. My woeful lack of took and craftsmanship knowledge is really biting me in the ass.”

“I can totally help you,” he offers up almost before he can think to curb the instinct to do so. _Off limits,_ his brain reminds him. But he’s been ignoring his brain for decades and he’s not about to start listening now. 

Besides, Claire looks pleased and the soft, open smile she shoots him is worth putting himself through the emotional ringer, even as that smile shifts to Christina as she rejoins them in the kitchen until their next delivery. 

____________

An hour later, Vinny and the rest of the sound crew are gone, enough footage of Brad and Claire dancing around the kitchen, _ooh_ ing and _ahh_ ing over nostalgic snack foods and shooting each other furtive, bashful glances to edit into a minimum of _three_ videos (which, as it happens, is two videos more than their original goal). 

Brad and Claire are left behind in the kitchen, alone for the first time all day. He shuffles his feet, sticks his hands in his pockets, racks his very unhelpful brain for reasons to linger. Maybe he can offer to come back wth some blueprints for a Twizzlers rig or offer to be her permanent taste tester or—

The clatter from the back room is thunderous and both he and Claire turn towards the closed door in surprise. Apologetically, Claire turns to him. “Can I ask one more favor from you before you leave? You mind giving Chris a hand? She had a long bike ride yesterday and she’s probably feeling a little muscle fatigued.”

It was a sharp reminder that this was the kind of intimacy Claire and Christina had: long bike rides for Christina while Claire probably got a pot of coffee and breakfast ready for her. Brad sighed, disappointment bitter in his mouth. It didn’t matter what he _thought_ was happening between them or what he he felt. 

It wouldn’t happen between them. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, already heading for the door. “I’ll finish up with Christina and then I guess I’ll get out of your hair so you guys can get ready for service.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “Yeah, um, if that’s what you want.”

He bit back the response that it was the _last_ thing he wanted.

____________

And then everything changed when he slipped into the back to see what, exactly, had caused the clatter. 

Because there, with her back pressed against a stack of liquor boxes, was Christina who was wrapped up in a _very_ intimate embrace with the delivery driver. They were so wrapped up in each other that they hadn’t even noticed Brad. 

Quickly and quietly, Brad slipped back into the kitchen, heart pounding in anxiety and adrenaline at what he had just seen.

Christina—Claire’s _partner—_ was cheating on her with the delivery driver with Claire only a few feet away. It was like a bad Hallmark movie. He leaned his back against the door, panicking. 

“Brad? You okay?”

Claire was looking at him from her workstation where she was finalizing the garnish prep. Out in the bar, he could hear Sohla cleaning and readying the bar.

_Oh shit, oh fuck._ She was looking at him so earnestly and with such concern and here he was, holding onto a secret about her girlfriend. Before he could actually think it through, his brain hopped ahead to communicate with his lips and he blurted everything out. 

“Claire, I’m so, _so_ sorry, but I just saw—Fuck, Claire, Christina is out there and—“

“What? Is she okay?” She wiped her hands on her apron, looking concerned, and made a move towards the backroom. 

Brad held his hand up, stopping her. “No, don’t go out there.”

She raised an eyebrow, mouth parting and twisting in confusion. “Why?”

“Because—because—“ And then it all came out: “Because Christina is out there macking on the delivery driver and I’m _so sorry_ , Claire. I can’t imagine how you’re feelin’ right now.”

“Brad,” Claire said slowly, looking absolutely confused. “What are you talking about? Christina and Charlie have been together forever.”

Frankly, that was just one too many curveballs for Brad that day. 

“And you're okay with that?”

“Why wouldn't I be? I want her to be happy.”

“Yeah, okay. But—but—you deserve someone completely devoted to you! That's just, like, what you deserve, Claire.”

”Devoted to—Brad, _what_ are you talking about?”

Brad huffed, frustrated and confused. “I’m talking about your girlfriend cheating on you and you don't care!'

A beat of silence and then:

“….girlfriend??”

“Uh, yeah, Claire. Christina? The one kissin' your delivery driver out there? Your partner?”

“Brad, she's my _business_ partner.”

“So you and she aren’t—"

“No.”

“Oh.”

He blinked at her a few times, processing the information provided to him. 

And then, because she couldn’t quite help it, Claire doubled over in a fit of giggles, leaning against him for support.

When she finally catches her breath, she bites her bottom lip and touches his arm. Really, he's very sweet and she's starting to understand why he's been ignoring her requests for drinks, her suggestions that he come over and help her re-tile her bathroom, her idea to go to the concert in the park together. 

"Brad," she says, eyes soft and affectionate and tender. "I like you. A lot."

His eyes light up with understanding, flicking down to her hand on his arm and how close she's shuffled to him. Tentatively, he puts a hand on he hip and she relaxes against him, fingertips trailing up his arm to settle against his chest. 

"So what you're saying," he says slowly, embarrassment giving way to teasing. "Is that you're Brad-sexual?"

"Oh my god, Brad." She shakes her head at him. "Y'know, you're really making me second guess how much I lik—"

But there's no more room for talking. His mouth is on hers, sweet and soft and searching. She sighs into the kiss, winds her arms around his neck and pulls him closer, pressing up on her tip toes to deepen the kiss.

They're lost in that moment for what could be hours or seconds, she doesn't know. All she knows is the taste and feel of him. 

And then she feels the lime wedge hit her head and she gasps, startled, and breaks the kiss. Both she and Brad turn in unison to see Christina in the doorway, looking unbearably pleased. 

"Not that I'm not thrilled for both of you," Christina deadpans. "But this is breaking about a hundred health codes, so if you could move this spit-fest out of the kitchen…"

“Christina!” Brad exclaims, arm slung over Claire’s shoulder and beaming. “Claire’s _business_ partner!”

Christina shot finger guns at Brad, going along with the jovial, over-the-top greeting. “Brad! Claire’s…. _someone!”_

Claire turned and pressed her face into Brad’s chest, simultaneously mortified and overcome with laughter. 

What a week. 


	5. baking school

Brad tell her the story about stepping out of a shower and wearing a towel around his hipswhile she’s in the middle of whipping up double batches of three different kinds of frostings. 

(She knows there’s more to the story, something about baby powder and his sister, but her brain pretty much ceased all other activity after _shower.)_

Normally, Claire has a strange, eager fondness for Brad’s stories. Not that the stories themselves are particularly good. It’s just that Brad has this way of telling them that touches something soft and warm inside of her, like everything will be okay because for five minutes, she can focus on the wild gesticulation of his hands, the way his eyes smile as big as his mouth does, the way he pauses here and there to wait for her reaction, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners in response to her laughter. Brad telling a story is a work of art, a type of slow seduction. 

The problem is, she doesn’t have _time_ for Brad’s particular brand of seduction right now. 

Claire has, like, a thousand more cakes to bake and frost and soak and assemble. She should be thinking about whipping butter and bring sugar up to a bubbly boil. Instead, her mind is very helpfully conjuring up the image of the grown up, 6’4”, muscular and broad-chested Brad she knows stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his hips.

The thing about being a Harvard graduate and a recipe tester and developer is that she’s kind of got a great imagination. It’s what got her into these roles: the ability to take the given, known information (known: Brad is hot, Brad has nice proportions and big, strong arms and blue eyes and riotous curly hair that curls up even more under the heat of the stovetop) and mix it with her own brand of extrapolative imagination (consider: What would Brad’s hair look like wet and curling from the steam of the shower? What would the droplets of water look like sluicing down over his body? And how could she find out if he would let her lick a path of one of those droplets to find out if that’s what she needed to stop the dryness of her mouth at the sight of him?) 

It’s how she ends up with an over soaked cake or two, a broken frosting, and a couple of cakes that she has to bribe Christina and Carla into saying are absolutely not over baked in any way. 

Because there’s no room in her brain for cake when her very inventive mind has moved on from Brad wet and out of the shower to Brad in the shower with Claire right there with him, all slippery hands and slick skin. She thinks about his thick fingers pushing into her hair and massaging her scalp as he works shampoo into her locks, gentle and caring. But then he’d back her up under the spray and rinse the shampoo away and duck down to steal a kiss or two or three and work his fingers over her breasts and between her legs, where she’s wet from more than just the shower. And his mouth sucks a hot, red mark into the curve of her neck as he crooks his fingers inside her and growls against her skin that he wants to see her come and—

“Claire!”

She startles and flushes, can feel it on her cheeks. There’s a dull throbbing between her legs that makes her feel impatient and wanting and a little grouchy that she’s worked up and unsatisfied.

“What?” she says, sharper than she means to. She’s just beating egg whites, no commentary required. 

“Um, I think you’re done?”

She glances into the bowel and sees the dull, matte proof of over whipped egg whites.

“Shit,” she swears, scraping the mixture into the trash and offering a charming grin to the camera. “Take two?”


	6. ba's hot ten

At the Hot Ten Part in the Bon Appétit kitchen, Claire doesn’t exactly know what she’s doing here or why people have paid up to a couple thousand dollars to spend forty-five minutes with her. She’s signed offset spatulas and a KitchenAid tattoo and the thought hits hers as she leaves the demo kitchen to begin preparing for the meet-and-greet portion of the day that there’s a non-zero chance of someone potentially permanently tattooing her signature onto their body.

The thought, just like the weekend—is overwhelming. The line of people queueing up in the test kitchen for a few moments of her time, for a hello and a quick side-hug and a selfie is equally as intimidating and she feels her stomach roll with nerves.But there’s this sense of pressure she feels, to make this moment as perfect for the people who have flown so far to see her and she still doesn’t quite understand why and all she sees and hears and feels is the chaos of the kitchen and the fever-pitch emotions.

And before she can break into a cold sweat and excuse herself to a quiet room for five seconds, he’s there.

Brad stands at her back, hand on her shoulder and lips close to her ear as he tells her it’ll be okay and he’s got her. 

She wants to step back and press herself against him, maybe turn and hide her face in his chest—better than any quiet room.

Brad clears his throat and gets the attention of the fans in the kitchen, claps his hands and draws the attention off of her and onto him for a moment. She loves him in that moment more than she thought she could love another person.

“Okay, okay, okay, here’s the deal! This evening the part of the fabulous Claire Saffitz’s bodyguard is gonna be played by yours truly!”

He puffs out his chest and pulls out a pair of sunglasses from his back pocket, looking every inch the part of bodyguard minus the flour-coated apron around his neck. 

Claire watches in amazement as the crowd’s energy shifts to Brad, watches as he corrals the mass of clamoring people into a single, manageable line.

She laughs as Brad makes a show of going up and down the line to make sure everyone has their tickets to see Claire. “Listen, I get it believe me! I’d wanna sneak in this line for some time with Half Sour herself but rules are rules, folks!”

Brad comes back to the head of the line, stands at the kitchen’s main workstation beside her, and waves at the line of now-organized partygoers. 

“Knock em dead, Claire,” he tells her with a wink and smile, turning to leave her to her fans.

But that panic wells up in her again and she just needs someone familiar with her. She needs him. 

Her fingers reach out and wrap around his wrist, stopping him from going. She doesn’t remember the decision to keep him with her, it happens involuntarily—like breathing. 

“Stay?”

He glances at her white-knuckled grip on his wrist and smiles softly. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Brad hangs back as she greets the few hundred people who are here to see her. She takes selfies and gives little pieces of herself through hugs and by listening to some moving stories of how she has touched people’s lives. It’s an overwhelming feeling that leaves her reeling, stories she’ll think about later that night. 

And then there are those who come up with stars in their eyes and completely lose their minds in a way that makes her giggle and blush. Brad chooses time step in then, adding his own two cents. “Oh, the feeling is completely understandable. You shoulda seen us all that first day Claire came to thekitchen. Starstruck, all of us.”

“Oh my god, Brad. Starstruck? Please, I was nobody.”

“Naw, I knew you were somebody.”

Claire becomes acutely aware of the flush on her cheeks, the small pleased smile, and the dozens of phones recording everything happening. 

She smiles at him and turns her attention back to the last few people in line, but there’s a part of her that wonders what she’d do without Brad Leone in her life and what, exactly, this weekend had in store for them.

Later, after the last fan has waved her goodbyes, Brad is already using his manager’s key (“Don’t tell Gaby I still have this, k, Claire?”) and is rummaging through the liquor cabinet to pull out the bourbon. 

“You deserve this,” he tells her, pouring out a few fingers of dark liquor and pushing it towards her. “I can see you shaking like a freakin’ leaf.”

She ducks her head, embarrassed. “That obvious?”

He winks and drains his own shot. “Only to me.”

She tries not to think about that—about how well he knows her and how much she needs him. Instead, she drinks her bourbon and pushes her empty glass towards him, which he refills dutifully. 

The second shot leaves her head fuzzy and her chest and fingertips warm. At least, she’s pretty sure it’s the bourbon. But there’s a good chance it’s because of the way Brad’s fingers brush against hers, taking her glass away, and refilling it only to take his own shot from her glass, his mouth on the rim where hers was only seconds ago.

She knows they talk about the weekend, about how crazy it’s all been. She distinctly remembers him waxing nostalgic about that first press publicity training weekend upstate. 

But she also knows that at some point, something between them shifts from hesitant possibilities and maybes to a given. He slides closer to her at the empty workstation, she leans against his shoulder, curls her hand over his wrist and presses the edge of her nail _just so_ to his thrumming pulse. 

Their hands brush and he’s in her space and his breath smells spicy and warm like the bourbon but also like _him_ and all she can do is tuck herself against him, lift her mouth to his, and let him take care of her—like he has all night. There’s no question, no hesitation, only transition. 

He holds her carefully at first, like he’s terrified she’ll pull back and tell him it was a mistake, a product of nerves and bourbon. But she sighs into the kissand wraps her arms around his neck and opens her mouth beneath his, tongue sliding against his in a way that makes her shiver and him groan. After that, his hands are rough on her body: clutching, grasping, pulling. She cedes control of the kiss to him, breaks the kiss with a sharp gasp of surprise when he fits his palms beneath the curve of her ass and lifts her up onto the countertop so she can comfortably touch him—no more cricks in her neck.

“This okay?” he asks, eyes searching hers for any sign she wants to stop. She can tell by the way he holds himself so impossibly and uncharacteristically still that he is waiting for her. 

She wraps her legs around his waist, tugs him forward by the leather strap of his apron, and presses a soft, gentle kiss to his lips. “More than okay,” she tells him, kissing him again because she can. Beneath her fingertips, his beard is soft and she likes the way he sucks in a breath when her nails scratch along his jawline. 

He drags her to the edge of the countertop so he can press himself between her legs, so he can palm her thigh and dance his fingertips along the inseam of her jumpsuit.

“Claire,” he growls when she nips at the tendons in his neck and squeezes a handful of his ass in her hands, pulling him further between her legs and into the hot heat of her. He drops his forehead to her shoulder, sinks his teeth into the place where her neck and shoulder meet, tongue laving at the red mark. The action makes her hiss and clutch at him, makes her wrap her legs around his waist and twitch against him, asking him for something only he can give her.

But he won’t fuck her for the first time in a test kitchen countertop—even if she does look lovely haloed by the city in the big picturesque windows. He slides a hand up her waist, ghosts over the curve of her breast jn a way that makes her whimper and clutch at him, confused as to why he’s slowing down. 

He cups her cheek in palm, smoothes the flushed skin with his thumb. “Come home with me,” he tells her. 

She leans into his touch and shakes her head. His heart falls to his stomach. He’s got it all wrong, misunderstood what this is—a quick fumble and some tension relief?

And then claire grins, nips at his palm and licks a stripe across his wrist. “ _You_ come home with _me_ ,” she counters. 

He shakes his head fondly at her unwillingness to let go of all decision making. He kisses her softly and helps her hop down off the counter.

“Deal,” he agrees, slinging an arm over her shoulder. She molds herself to him, presses a kiss to his chest through his shirt, and presses her palm to his stomach, fingernails scratching lightly before dragging down, down, down over the sizable bulge in the front of his pants.

He hisses, twitching beneath her touch. “Not gonna make it to your place if you keep doing that,” he warns her. 

She looks up at him, coy smile in place and retreats her hand for now. “Then we better hurry home.”

Home. He likes the sound of that. 

The normally fifteen minute commute to her place takes them thirty as they stop to touch each other, eager and worked up and desperate.

(For the first time in his life, Brad is late to work the next day, a pleased and tousled-looking Claire in tow. He makes excuses about the L train breaking down. No one tells them that Claire’s teeth marks on his neck are visible to the whole kitchen.)


	7. wooden spoon

In the middle of the Thanksgiving chaos at house Saffitz in Cape Cod, Claire decides that she really, _really_ should investigate Molly’s suggestion of punishing Brad with a wooden spoon. She’s tipsy and it’s not her fault—Brad, Molly, and Andy keep handing her drinks and she can usually hold her own, but it’s a mix of wine, beer, and cocktails and her head and stomach are spinning. Brad keeps trying to steal pinches of pie filling and she’s had enough.

She giggles out his name incredulously, “ _Brad…”_ and tries to smack his arm with the wooden spoon. But Brad, on instinct, catches her by the wrist, stopping her motion midair. 

The giggle dies in her throat because Brad is holding onto her, thumb pressed into her pulse point at her wrist, and staring down at her, eyes suddenly dark and intense and focused on her and the spoon in her hand.

She swallows hard, fights the urge to give in to the weak knees wobbling beneath her and collapse against his chest. 

A slow, almost predatory grin, spreads across his face. He plucks the spoon from her hand, lets her go, and turns the utensil over in his fingers.

“Gotta be careful how you use this thing, Claire,” he warns her, voice low, mindful of the bustling coworkers around them. “Never know what might happen.”

She licks her lips, peers up at him, trembling.

“What would happen?” She asks, a hint of challenge in her voice.

He tilts his head, considers her, then takes a half step forward, crowding her against the countertop. Her heart hammers in her chest, mouth dry, as he towers over her, eyes dragging over her body.

“Up to you to find out,” he teases, handing her the wooden spoon back.

Before she can process what just happened, what he means, what he’s implying, he’s gone, already clapping Rick on the back and taking another beer from Andy.

Claire turns the spoon over in her hands and bites her lip, feels flushed all over with anticipation and promise.

She tucks the spoon into her apron pocket.

Maybe she will find out what happens when you punish Brad Leone, after all.

______________

Later that night, the crew is long gone and Claire was disappointed to watch Brad go with them, helping a drunk Molly and Andy into the back of the van, waving from the driver’s seat at Claire and her mom on the porch. 

Twenty minutes later, Claire is finishing up the dishes, eyes drifting over the places in her house where Brad took up so much space so easily and so comfortably, like he belonged there. The spoon is still nestled in her pocket and she drags a finger over the curve of the spoon, relives the moment between she and Brad in the kitchen. 

She feels hot all over at the memory of his big hand wrapped tight around her wrist, the heat and pressure of the gesture, the way he’d crowded her andsucked all the air from the room so there was nothing but them and the promise of something. 

Her fingertips drift from the spoon over her hip, experimentally touching herself lightly, eyes closed and pretending—just something to take the edge off.

The knock at the door is loud and sudden and sharp and it shocks her out of her fantasy. Taking a few deep breaths to get herself under control, she heads to the front door and opens it.

The breath she regained leaves her again.

Brad is standing there, hands in his pockets, and looking the perfect mixture of confident and unsure. 

“Brad? What are you—“

“I just thought,” he says in a rush, cutting her off, like the words are clawing to be let out. “I just thought I’d come back.”

“Why?” she asks breathlessly.

He steps forward, takes up all the space in the threshold and reaches for her, nudges the wooden spoon in her front pocket.

“I thought—“ He frowns, looking uncertain in the face of her question of his presence. “I just thought, I mean—that we—That you—“

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” she says again, more emphatic, more breathless, anticipation rising. If it had been anyone else, she’s not sure this conversation would make sense. But Brad, for all of his faults and self-proclaimed shortcomings in listening, _listens_ to the woods said and unsaid with Claire. 

They have a language all their own and they’re finally on the same page. 

“Thank fuck,” he murmurs before taking her face in his hands, stroking his thumbs over her cheeks, and slotting his mouth over hers in a desperate, frantic kiss.

She clings to him, groans into the kiss. He’s a riot of energy—all hands and tongue and teeth. She can’t do anything besides wrap her arms around his neck, slide them down his chest and around his waist, scratch at his back and press closer, closer, closer.

He spins her, presses her against the door jamb, slots a thigh between her legs. She sighs appreciatively, rocks down against him, seeking friction. 

He surges against her, his hands in her hair, his mouth hot against her neck, kissing and sucking at the pale skin turning rapidly red under his touch. 

“Brad,” she sighs, everythjng too hot and intense and _him. _ She feels like she’s about to crawl out of her skin, like she needs to wrap herself around him right now. 

“Fuck, Claire,” he pants, slips a hand beneath her shirt to palm her belly and breast. “Wanted you for so long,” he confesses between frantic kisses. 

“Me too,” she chants, “Me, too.” 

The wooden spoon digs into her hip and she clings to him, presses her forehead into the crook of his neck, everything slowing down as giggles overtake her.

“Kinda killin’ a guy’s confidence here, Saffitz,” he murmurs into her hair. 

She pulls back, wipes a thumb across his bottom lip. And puts his hand on the wooden spoon in her pocket.

He raises an eyebrow at her and she laughs, can’t help it.

“Is that a wooden spoon in my pocket or are you happy to see me?”

It sends her into another fit of giggles and he groans, kisses her forehead. “Can’t take you anywhere,” he grumbles affectionately, smoothing the hair from her face.

She lifts her face into his touch, nuzzles into his palm. 

“Hey, Brad?”

“Yeah, Claire?”

“Wanna come in?”

“You bringing the spoon?”

“Obviously,” she says with a grin. 

“Then hell yeah.”

The door closes softly behind them as they disappear into the Saffitz household and tiptoe to her bedroom, mindful of the creaking third stair. 

Sauci never does find out where that spoon of hers got to.

(In her bedroom, she whines and lifts her hips and he slips another finger inside her, curling and stroking.

Nails rake his shoulders as she groans his name, body shuddering.

“Shhh,” he tells her, kissing her to silence her, swallowing each pant and desperate cry. “Gotta be quiet, Claire. Just this once. When we get home....” 

The promise hovers in the air and redoubles the heat in her blood. 

She whimpers and kisses him back desperately, wraps her fingers around his wrist between her legs, overstimulated and torn between begging him to keep going and to stop and give her a reprieve. She feels like she’s going to crawl out of her skin.

He doesn’t let up the rest of the night.)

______________

The next morning they’re laying in bed and Claire’s neck is covered in dark red-purple hickeys and Brad looks like the cat that got the cream. 

“Shit,” she says, she’s going wide, turning in his arms with a palm on his chest. “How are we going to explain to my mom and everyone why you’re here?”

He kisses her softly, lets his hands drift over her side and hips to settle on her thigh. She sighs softly and presses up into the kiss for a moment before pulling away.

“Brad,” she whines. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he grins, dancing his fingers over the inside of her thigh. “Claire, we’ll tell ‘em the truth.”

“The truth?”

“Yeah. I forgot something really,” Kiss to her jaw. “Really.” Kiss to her cheek. “Important.” Kiss to her mouth, soft and searching. 

She threads her fingers into his hair, plays with the curls at the nape of his neck for a moment, before breaking the kiss looking entirely pleased with herself.

“Well if we’re telling the truth to everyone,” she adds, eyes dropping from his to focus on the smattering of hair on his chest. “Maybe we should say that we were really good friends for a long time but somewhere along the way, I—I mean, we,— started feeling like saying goodbye at the end of the day or coming to the kitchen and not having the other around was really the worst part of our days. And I realized—we realized—we didn’t want to say goodbye anymore.” 

She meets his eyes, heart in her throat. They haven’t had time to talk about this despite everything and it’s a gamble to confess so much. But he’s taught her to take risks and reach beyond her comfort zone. 

Brad kisses her forehead, cups her cheek, rolls her beneath him, pinning her between his body and the lumpy mattress, settling atop her like he belongs there.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Sounds like the truth to me.”


	8. friends with benefits angst 1

This _thing_ between them—friends with benefits, pressure relief, stress management—she doesn’t know what to call it. It was just supposed to be a way to blow off steam, to scratch a mutual itch with a trusted friend. But things are spiraling out of control. Quick fucks are taking a slower turn, desperate frenzied touches are becoming reverent and purposeful, and she doesn’t want him to go at the end of the night or first thing in the morning.

Feelings are bleeding over the line they’d drawn for themselves and she can feel the panic welling up in her. Especially when Brad is the first to crack. He always was braver than her.

Brad tells her he’s maybe a little bit in love with her and he has feelings—capital F—for her.

And she bites her lip and hems and haws and tells him she cares for him so much and she obviously is attracted to him but she doesn’t know if she’s _there_ yet. Love is a big word and she doesn’t want to say it—hasn’t ever said it—until she knows. It’s just how she is, has to gather all the facts and figures and evaluate the possible outcomes from every angle. 

He tells her he understands and it’s fine, but Claire can tell he’s hurt, that something between them has finally stepped off the ledge wrong.

Things are awkward after that, out of sync. Brad stops touching her at work and she’s too nervous to ask if this is the beginning of the end.

And then it all boils over at her apartment one night while they cook dinner. She’d invited him over in a desperate attempt to just make things normal again. Even if they can’t touch each other like they used to, she doesn’t want to lose him. Fuck, when did everything get so messy?

She drains the last of her wine, places the glass on the counter a little harshly so it clinks and rattles dangerously. “God, Brad. I said I wasn’t there _yet;_ not that I wouldn’t be there at all!”

“Claire, I know. I’m just tryin’ to give you some space!”

“Why? I didn’t ask for space!”

“Shit, I don’t know, Claire. I don’t want you to feel pressured or like I’m expectin’ anything just cuz I love you. And—“ He stops himself, shakes his head and turns back to the pot of pasta in the stove.

“And what?” She asks softly. 

“It’s nothin. Don’t worry about it. Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’ll give you less space. I’ll be all over ya and you’ll forget what the word space even means.”

“Brad.”

He sighs, hangs his head. “I may have been protectin’ myself a little. In case you decide you don’t, that you’ll never, that—“ He swallows over the stuttered words and then, “In case you never feel that way about me.”

“Oh Brad..”

“You’re tied up all in here, Saffitz.” He places a hand over his heart, taps it once, twice. He shrugs. “And I don't know if I can get you out.”

She wraps herself around him, lays her cheek flat against his chest and holds him. He grips her tightly, terrified of losing her. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmurs.

He kisses the top of her head. “Okay.”

She pulls away but remains in the loop of his arms. “I’ve never been in love before, I don’t think. Not really. And I just don’t know. How did you know you loved me?”

He grins at her, lighting up. “How long ya got?”

She blushes. “Brad.”

He tightens his grip on her. “Hell, I don’t know, Claire. I just—It’s like this: you’re the first person I wanna talk to every day and I love the way you never give up and your sense of humor and your laugh and the way you make me feel like freakin’ Superman. I love—Geez, Claire, you really wanna hear this? Cuz I can keep doin’ this all—“

She cuts him off, lips on his, soft and sure, her fingers hooked into his belt loops.

When she pulls away, her eyes are bright. “That’s love?” She asks.

He shrugs, holds her tighter, brushes the back of his knuckles over her cheek. “For me, yeah.”

She bites her lip, thinking, and then: “Hey, Brad?”

He huffs a laugh, rolls his eyes. “Yes, Claire?”

“I love you.”


	9. friends with benefits angst 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has the EXACT same opener as the last chapter but it's a different take on the trope (mostly because my dumb heart needs all the miscommunication angst....my favorite kind :D)

This thing between them—friends with benefits, pressure relief, stress management—she doesn’t know what to call it. It was just supposed to be a way to blow off steam, to scratch a mutual itch with a trusted friend. But things are spiraling out of control. Quick fucks are taking a slower turn, desperate frenzied touches are becoming reverent and purposeful, and she doesn’t want him to go at the end of the night or first thing in the morning.

Feelings are bleeding over the line they’d drawn for themselves and she can feel the panic welling up in her. She catches feelings for him and she can’t be the one to ruin this thing they’ve got going, needs to remind herself that this—whatever it is between them—is not _real._

She starts shutting him out a little, casually mention it won’t bother her if he wants to date (it will) because they’re not like, exclusive or anything. God, she was never good with these kinds of conversations or feelings. Give her finicky puff pastry and towering temperamental meringues any day over her stupid, aching heart.

Except Brad didn’t think they were casual at all. He’s been in love with her since day one pretty much and when she tells him they’re casual, nothing serious, he feels like everything stands still for a moment. It’s been a long time since someone caught him off guard and his heart wasn’t ready for Claire.

So things cool down between them. Brad gives her space because he needs to get his heart back into his chest and off his sleeve and Claire knows she should feel relieved that they’re cooling down because dating Brad is a colossal mistake—they work together and he’s one of her best friends and adding feelings to the mix is a bad idea. 

(She figures if she keeps telling herself this, it will eventually quell the twisting, swooping sensation in hear chest and stomach every time she looks at him.)

But the empty space in her bed where he should be makes her tear up and she drinks a half bottle of wine and watches _The X-Files_ and wears his shirt and realizes she’s made a mistake.

And both of them in that awkward, break-up-but-not-a-break-up phase and trying to pretend like they’re fine and not pining and heartbroken and being overly polite because they’ve forgotten how to not just be the way they were. She’s not even sure they were normal friends. It feels like they slipped perfectly into each other’s life like they belonged there always.

So now they just find themselves reaching for the other—like Claire needing Brad’s unsolicited critique and never-ending optimism on Day 3 for _Gourmet Makes_ and Brad needing Claire’s input on spice blends and where to go in the city for the best chocolate pastry—except they can’t anymore and they both feel more than a little bereft and lost; unsure how to find their way back to each other. 

When Brad comes back from Hawaii, raving about this amazing woman he met who dives and hunts under water, Claire bites her tongue and tells herself that she definitely isn’t jealous it’s just that….

Okay. She’s jealous. And she’s not the kind of girl who gets jealous but the thought of Brad finding anyone amazing makes her feel threatened in a way she’s uncomfortable with. Not that Brad doesn’t deserve someone amazing. She just always thought, maybe…it would be her.

She barely says _hello_ to him when he walks through the test kitchen, collects her stupid, finicky half-tempered chocolate and stands in the walk-in to blink back tears of frustration. Because she feels like she’s falling apart and he seems fine and maybe she was right the whole time to break things off between them. He wasn’t that serious about her anyway.

Brad finds her in the walk-in, though.

She wipes at her eyes and offers him a smile. “Oh, hey, Brad. I was—um, I was chopping onions. You know I can’t stand that stuff.”

They both ignore the tray of chocolate in her hands and the lack of onions. He doesn’t ignore the shine of tears on her cheek, though. He puts his hand on her shoulder and ducks his head so he can see her, his voice is all soft and husky like it was when they talked in the early morning and exchanged soft kisses.

“You okay?”

"Yeah!" And it comes out all high-pitched and overly bright. "Yeah, no, I was just hearing about Hawaii. Sounds like you really connected with the people there. That woman sounds amazing. I'm glad you're, uh, moving on."

There. She can be the bigger person.

Brad frowns at her, confused, speaking slowly. “Yeah, Claire. That’s what you wanted isn’t it?”

And she has to bite back that _no_ , it isn’t what she wanted not at all. Instead she musters up the strength to smile and nod. “Yeah, that’s what I wanted. Excuse me.” She pushes by him, chocolate abandoned, grabs her jacket and purse, ignores Brad stepping out from the walk-in behind her and calling her name. 

“Yeah, you know what? I, um, I forgot to eat and you know how I get without lunch.” She just needs to leave, had to get out of there and away from him and what could have been and now can’t be. 

But he chases her out the building because something is not adding up and he's calling out for her and asking her to just _stop_. And there are cars honking and people passing them and she’s hurt and frustrated and he just wants them to be okay.

“Claire, what the hell is going on with you? I thought this is what you wanted?”

“It is!”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

“Because!”

“Because why?”

“Because I love you, okay!”

And they’re out of breath and New York is all around them and he’s looking at her in shock.

“You love me?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Maybe.”

He steps closer, grin twitching at his lips. “Say it again.”

She looks up at him from beneath lowered lashes, reluctant. “I love you.”

Before she finishes the word, he takes her face in his hands and slants his mouth over hers and kisses her deeply, clutches her to him. She gasps and presses closer, curls her fingers into his shirt and kisses him back.

He pulls away when someone wolf whistles and grins. She blinks back tears and tilts her head into the cradle of his hands.

There will be time for explanations and apologies later, time to figure out where they went wrong and wasted precious time apart.

For now, they’re content to let time stand still in the streets of New York. 


	10. Headache Remedy

Claire has a pounding headache and no amount of coffee or pain killers is helping. It’s loud—too loud—in the kitchen today and the cacophony of raised voices, multiple conversations at once, the sound of oven doors slamming shut and Sarah hitting her dough puck over and over again are not helping. She glares at the beams of bright sunlight streaming in through the windows she normally adores and wonders if it would be too dramatic, even for her, to just wear her sunglasses in the kitchen. 

None of her normal remedies are helping either: She’s gone for a walk and stood in the walk-in and closed her eyes. Nothing quells the pounding, throbbing pressure beating against her skull.

She disappears into an abandoned corner office and keeps the blinds down to keep it dark and cool. It soothes her headache a little. Tears well in her eyes and she takes deep, shaky breaths against the pain: she’s tired and hurting and just wants her head to stop trying to detach itself from her spine.

When Brad walks into the office, she thinks she should be more surprised than she is; Brad always finds her. 

“Hey, Claire. Carla said you weren’t feelin’ so hot?”

The tone of his voice—soft and husky and low—surprises her. In any other situation, she doesn’t need eyes to find Brad, only her ears. He’s the loudest person she knows, full of boisterous laughter and a walking riot of onomatopoeia. 

From beneath the shield of her hands, she gives him a miserable look. “Headache,” she groans. “Maybe a migraine. I even tried one of your hippie remedies. What, rubbing spearmint on your ear or something?”

He laughs at that, the kind of full-belly laugh that only Claire brings out. Brad considers it a gift that Claire lets herself be silly an sharp with him. But when she winces at the loud sound, he claps a hand over his mouth. 

“Shit, sorry, Claire,” he says in a softer tone.

She waves a hand at him in forgiveness, head dropping further into her cupped hands. 

“K, so spearmint leaves and painkillers ain’t doin’ the trick. Here, I got one more hippie trick for ya.” He winks at her to let her know he likes it when she calls him and his tinctures and alternative medicines _hippie_. Take that, Big Pharma, he thinks.

Brad lifts his fingertips to his temples and uses his ring finger to press on the curve of his eyebrow. “Mkay, Claire. Monkey see, monkey do.”

She rolls her eyes and looks skeptical but her head is really pounding and she’s desperate. Brad’s never—well, mostly never—led her astray with his garlic and spearmint, so she might as well trust him in this, too.

Claire mimics his gesture and presses her fingers to her temple and brow.

“Yeah there ya go, Claire! Okay, now press on your eyebrow and temples and kinda rub at the same time.”

She does as instructed, pressing and rubbing. “This helps how, exactly?”

“Pressure points! My mom taught me this one. Never fails.” 

Except Claire’s headache isn’t going away. It’s getting more intense and she huffs, disappointed and in pain, and drops her hands down into her lap.

“ _Braaaad_ ,” she whines, on the verge of frustrated tears again. “It’s not working.”

He frowns. “It should,” he insists. “Maybe you’re not exactly doing it right. Thought you were a good student, Claire, sheesh. Here, let me.”

Without another thought, he’s in front of her, fingertips already pressing to her temple and brow. With his fingers on her skin and their faces close together, Claire’s headache began to pound in time with her accelerated heartbeat.

“K, I’m gonna get in there and press around, just let me know when you feel better, Claire.”

She licks her lips and decides she should close her eyes. Being this close to him is overwhelming. On her best days she can keep her feelings under wraps, but she’s cranky and hurting and needy and the combination of Brad’s nearness and the sharp, piercing _blue_ of his eyes is pulling the threads of her control. 

In some ways, closing her eyes is worse. Now, she is hyperaware of the pressure of his fingertips on her skin, the warmth of his hands on her face and his knees brushing hers as they sit face to face. She notices the puff of his breath against her face and the low, husky timbre of his voice as he talks about pressure points and being connected to your nerves and inner spirit. 

Her body feels like it’s melting, stress seeping from her bones as Brad’s fingers work over her temple and brow. Small, soothing circles and pressure make her feel strangely grounded—like if he lets her go, if he stops, she’ll float away.

“How’s that?” he whispers, mindful of her headache and close proximity.

Her eyes flicker open as his fingers fall away from her face, just trailing over the curve of her jaw. She swallows hard and meets his eyes. The concern in his blue eyes feel overwhelming and she fights the urge to fall forward into his arms, barely able to bite back the request to ask him to hold her and stroke her hair.

And then she feels the pain roar back to life in her head, insistent and painful and present. 

She felt her bottom lip wobble. “It’s still there,” she whispered in despair. “Brad, it hurts so bad.”

A pained expression crossed his face, as if her pain was his. He wanted to fix her, help her. 

“There’s uh, one more thing I know how to do to help headaches but, um, you can say no, okay?”

“Brad, I’ll take anything at this point. Please.”

He licked his lips, a flash of pink tongue that drew her eye. She flicked a glance at his mouth, noted they were chapped and parted. The space between them felt closer and closer and then—

And then Brad’s mouth was on hers. The pressure of his lips against hers is light and unobtrusive at first before slowly pressing forward, more insistent, his tongue just sweeping out over the seam of her mouth. She clutches one hand on his shoulder and the other on his knee, considers using the leverage to push forward into his arms the way she wanted to only a few minutes ago.

The only thing that comes close to the feeling of his mouth on hers is his hand in her hair, palming the base and curve of her head, fingertips pressing and massaging. 

There is no room for pain, no room for a headache, when everything she is is suddenly Brad: his mouth, his warmth, his hands, _him_. 

She whimpers when he pulls away. But his hand remains in her hair and when her eyes flicker open, he’s watching her carefully. 

“So, how do you feel?”

Her fingers flex against his knee, curl tighter into his shirt. He’s looking at her so carefully, holding himself back. She can see it in the way he is unnaturally still, waiting for a cue from her as to if this was okay or if he’s ruined everything. 

And then she feels the pinpricks of her headache at the edges of her mind and she tugs him forward, tilts her head to the side and smiles softly at him. 

“Think I need another dose.”


	11. An Almost Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is pure 100% melodrama bc i maintain that shit is good for you every once in a while

Brad and Claire know there’s _something_ between them; something electric and ready to combust if they just give it a little kindling and a match to set it ablaze. It’s comforting in some ways to know that the attraction, the affection, everything, is mutual. It keeps them going while they wait for their some day. 

Because they just keep waiting for their moment, waiting for work to quiet down, _waiting, waiting, waiting._ But the moment never comes. The man she's been casually dating, biding her time with until their moment comes, is pretty great and when he proposes, she tells him she needs time to think.

She tells Brad, awkwardly, that he proposed. She wants him to tell her to say no, wants him to say that they're supposed to be waiting for this YouTube shit to die down and then they'll have their moment out of the spotlight, their happily ever after.

But he just swallows hard and nods at her and pats her on the shoulder. "Congrats," he chokes out. "You deserve to be happy."

So she tells the man yes and she plans a wedding she never thought she'd have. She pictured herself surrounded by friends in a park or on a beach with Brad at her side. But she's happy enough, she supposes. And Brad is still in her life.

That's something.

The year zooms by and the distance between she and Brad grows and suddenly the ring on her finger feels heavy. It's the day of her wedding a knock on the door startles her. The ceremony starts in five. 

It's Brad.

He looks like he's struggling for words but he manages to stop looking at her like she's the sun and smiles softly at her. "You look beautiful, Claire. Just....really fucking beautiful."

She blushes the way she always does when Brad focuses his attention on her. "Yeah, well, there's like a pound of makeup on me."

"Naw. The beauty is all you."

She looks at him, pained, wondering why he's choosing _now_ to do this. She knows needs to know why he’s here, now, of all times.

He steps closer and strokes her cheek with the back of his fingertips, so deceptively gentle. "We missed our moment, Saffitz. Our happily ever after."

She feels the tears at the corner of her eyes and nuzzles into his hand. "Don't do this," she tells him. She's not sure what she's asking for. 

"Isn't that my line?"

Her heart stops and he shakes his head softly. "I'm not here to stop the wedding, Claire. You look happy."

And she is. It isn't the all-encompassing love she thought she'd have but it's enough. 

"I just—" He struggles to find the words and shakes his head. "I just needed you to know that I've always, that I never stopped lov—"

"I know," she answers quickly, smoothing her hands over the lapels of his jacket. "I know," she says, more softly. "Me too."

It's a confession all on its own and he kisses it off her lips, kisses her like he can imprint her love into him. He's careful, so careful, to not smudge her lipstick and ruin her hair. But he's passionate, gripping her hip and shoulder and neck and tilting her mouth beneath his so he can taste her for the first and last time.

They missed their moment, but they at least had this one.

______________

He doesn't stop the wedding but Claire does. It hits her as she’s walking down the aisle with her cheeks still burning from his beard, the taste of him on her tongue, her lips tingling, that walking away from him and settling for _good enough_ isn’t enough at all. She deserves the love she wants. She doesn't want this church wedding; she wants Brad and the park and her friends all around her.

Later, when she takes his hand and runs out with him, she wraps herself around him. "I wanted you to stop me," she confesses, ashamed of herself. "I wanted you to tell me to turn him down."

He brushes her hair back and kisses her cheek, her chin, her lips. Now that he can, now that he's allowed to, he won't ever stop. "I thought you were happy."

"Not without you."

They climb out of the Uber and hole themselves up in his apartment for the foreseeable future, blocking out the world around them. He peels her wedding dress off of her and they're never talking about how they almost missed their chance ever again. The consequences of her—of their—actions can wait just a little bit longer, cell phones turned off and abandoned on his bedroom floor. 

He's learned a lot in the year that he thought he'd lost her. and mostly he's learned he's never letting her go another day thinking that he doesn't love her, that she's not his sun that he revolves around.

______________

He goes with her a few days later while she hands the ring back, apologizes, and closes the door on the life that almost was. She's shaken when she steps back outside the coffee shop and he immediately slips his hand into hers and tugs her to his side, presses a kiss to the top of her head. 

"You okay?"

"i just didn't want to hurt him. But..." she looks up at him, curls her fingers into his shirt like she's making sure he won't go anywhere. "I'd rather hurt him than lose you. i don't know if that makes me a bad person or not, but—"

He stops her and spins her in the street, puts his hands on her shoulders. "You could never be a bad person, Claire Safittz. You're like, the bestest, most nicest person I fucking know. Okay?"

She nods and turns her face into his hand, plants a kiss to his palm. "Okay."

He takes her hand again and rubs a thumb over her ring finger and thinks about how long he needs to wait before he slips his own ring around her finger.


	12. queer eye au

Brad knew they were coming, of course he did. You don’t get onto a show as big as theirs without producers and execs and admin calling you, your friends, and your grumpy landlady. There’d been background checks and a request for a firm list of things he would absolutely _not_ agree to do on camera. Then there were releases and waivers and contracts signed, filming dates set, and all there was left to do was wait.

He honestly wasn’t even sure why the hell he was putting himself through this, in the first place. Not that the idea didn’t appeal to some part of him, he just never thought he’d needed the extra attention before. At thirty-four years old, Brad had a firm grasp on the basics of hygiene, his apartment was reasonably well cared for given his perpetual bachelor status, and—well, no, he didn’t have much of a defense for his lack of cultural knowledge. But, he thought brightly, that’s what he had Claire for! Someone to balance out all of that Sniper-watching and bow-hunting macho posturing.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Still, in the days leading up to the shoot date, he’d had to endure the ridicule and non-stop teasing from Molly, Andy, and Rapoport. 

“Maybe they can do something about that ridiculous beanie,” Andy sneered in that way only Andy could pull off: part teasing and part condescending. 

“Look, Leone, this is your chance to take advantage of that production budget,” Rapoport had advised, a devious and cunning expression spreading across his face. “Go name brand, is all I’m saying.”

And Molly—shit, he barely understood English on a good day, never mind the half-formed and abbreviated version of English she insisted on speaking. But he was still pretty sure she was giving him a hard time.

It was Claire’s soft hand on his forearm and her earnest, “I hope you have fun. You deserve it, Brad,” that had convinced him every second on television for the world to see would be worth it.

That didn’t mean, however, he was prepared to open his door one sunny Saturday morning to find a group of beaming, excited men on his doorstep, bouncing on their heels—the heels of their feet _and_ in Jonathan’s case, high heel shoes. 

Brad took a deep breath, grinned, and opened his arms and welcomed them into his home with enthusiastic hugs and greetings.

Queer Eye had arrived.

______________

_No matter what happens this week,_ Brad thinks as he jumps onto his kingsized bed and into the welcoming arms of what he’s pretty sure are going to be his new best friends, _it’s gonna be life-changing._

Antoni had admired his chef-centric kitchen, running an appreciate finger over the heavy and well-seasoned cast iron on the stove and the selection of pristinely sharpened chef’s knives clinging to the magnetized strip above the prep station.

Bobby looked at his apartment hungrily, wrinkling his nose only once at the sight of beautiful, picturesque prints of the national parks he’d traveled mixed with gaudy, trashy prints of half-naked women and cheesy comics. Brad was already mentally saying goodbye to them.

Tan had spent the most amount of time staring down the lens of the camera, horrified at the t-shirts, flannel, and drawstring cargo pants he was pulling out of his closet. Brad had just barely heard him asking the camera, “Where are his underpants?,” before Jonathan tugged at his hand and pulled him into the bathroom to discuss the assorted beard oils and soaps laid out on the counter. 

Karamo, meanwhile, took note of the extensive music collection in Brad’s living room and made a note to check out the local exhibits in the museums just a ferry ride away to New York. His nominator had mentioned Brad didn’t know how to relax and just do things for _him._

It was going to be a hell of a week and the Fab 5 were ready to help.

_____________

“Brad, honey, no one told you who nominated you??” Jonathan paused, fingers still in Brad’s hair, looking positively scandalized as he turned to the rest of his team and the video crew. “No one told him? Showed him?”

Brad grinned at the man in the mirror, shrugging his shoulders bashfully. “Probably Andy bein’ snarky as shit, right? Can’t take me smellin’ like I’ve just been fishin’ when I gotta work next to him? And I know he hates my hat—“

“No it wasn’t Andy, Braddy Boo,” Jonathan said, leaning forward and absolutely beaming at him. “It was—oh, I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Hair pause! Come with me!”

And that’s how Brad found himself in front of the laptop in his bedroom, watching with his heart in his throat as not Andy, not Chris, not even his sister or his mom sat down in front of the camera.

It was Claire. 

Claire, looking freshly showered and awkward as she looked into the camera and bit her lip, took a deep breath, and spoke.

“I’m nominating Brad to be a hero because—“ She looked off camera, directing her question to the production crew. “He’s not gonna see this right?” Indistinct murmuring from the crew and then Claire nodded with a soft oh, looking down and reconsidering her words.

Brad found himself watching with a dry mouth, heart pounding, suddenly desperate to know what Claire would have said if she had known he wouldn’t see...

“I’m nominating Brad because Brad is the best. “ She let out a self-conscious giggle, like she couldn’t believe her own daring for saying something like that out loud. But it seemed it was the first crack in a dam as she sat up straighter and began speaking earnestly.

“Brad’s the guy, you know? Like the guy. You call him when you need a tire changed but you also call him when you’re sick and you need someone to make you the best cup of tea. Brad’s a bit of a hippie—Oh my god, don’t show him that part, he hates it when I call him that.”

Brad grinned, shaking his head. He didn’t hate it at all, not when it was Claire gently teasing him about his soft flannel and beeswax lotion and chapstick and bottles of herbal tinctures and remedies in his secret cabinet in the kitchen.

“Anyway,” Claire continued on screen, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Brad’s the best and he’s my best friend and everyone knows he’s the guy. But—“ She hesitated before lifting her chin and speaking, looking like she wanted to say this for a long time. “But Brad doesn’t know he’s the guy. He’s smart as hell and he knows so much about, well, about everything.”

Brad watched in fascination as Claire launched into a recounting of everything he taught her: how to use power tools, where to find the best hot dog cart in town, how to sharpen knives by hand, how to simply let go of what people expected and just be herself. 

He felt his cheeks hot and red with embarrassment and pleasure as he glanced behind him at the Fab 5, all huddled together, holding each other, and beaming at him. Jonathan, Tan, and Bobby had tears in their eyes.

Brad turned back to the screen. “But Brad is always putting himself down and pretending like the things he knows and the way he helps everyone isn’t a big deal. And I just—“ Claire shrugged. “I want someone to show him, show him—“

From off camera, a hint of amusement: “That he’s the guy?”

Claire grinned and nodded. “Exactly.” And then brow furrowing, looking down at her lap where her hands were tangled together, looking exactly the way she looked when she figured something out in a recipe that had been bugging her for days. 

Like she just realized something that should have been obvious.

“He’s the guy,” she whispered softly. 

The screen went black, the video was over, and Brad Leone was left to think about the soft curve of Claire’s cheek, the way her hair fell over her forehead, and the gentle way that she’d spoken of him.

Brad turned in his chair towards the Fab 5. “Okay boys, new plan.” He stood and rubbed his hands together, suddenly feeling elated and nauseous all at once, excited and nervous. “I need you fellas to help me take her—“ He jerked a thumb over is shoulder toward the laptop. “On a date.”

He was met with a sea of squeals and “about time!” as the other men engulfed him in a giant group hug, chattering abut their plans.

_____________

Brad, chest puffed and proud, had no qualms in explaining to Tan France that he hadn’t worn underwear in about six years. 

“Oh,” Tan had said, surprised but recovering quickly. “That explains why I didn’t find any in your bedroom drawers, then. Well, Brad, I’m sorry to say but most establishments require underwear before we try on any clothes, so, I think our first stop will be buying you a pair of underpants. We’ll wait here.”

Tan watches Brad go before turning to camera, mouth dropping open, hand coming up to fan his cheeks., fighting a disbelieving grin. In all his years—over a few dozen episodes and appearances—he’d never once come across a man who hadn’t worn underwear. He stares into the camera and points one long, elegant finger into the lens.

“Claire Saffitz, you are one lucky woman. Oh my _god_.” The camera panned over Tan’s wide, gleeful eyes and over his shoulder to where Brad twirled a single pair of underpants in line at the cashier, his loud booming voice clearly picked up even without the boom mic.

“Bag? Naw, don’t worry about it. I’ll wear ‘em out! First pair of underwear I worn in years, man. _Years_. Ha!”

A brief trip to the bathroom later and Brad was back with the crew, wincing and shifting his hips, looking uncomfortable, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his pants to pluck at the extra layer of fabric he was now wearing for the first time in a long time.

Tan couldn’t stifle a laugh and batted Brad’s hands away with a teasingly sharp, “Stop playing with your underwear! Now, Brad, you’ve got a great body. And the cargo pants and t-shirts are fine for the kitchen, but what about when you’re on the town or on a date?”

Brad pouted a little but bounced back and recovered quickly. “Okay, ole Tanny boy, I don’t really have a _style_ , y’know? I just like comfort.”

Tan looks back at the camera, eyebrow quirking. The audience must now be painfully aware how much Brad values his _comfort_. 

But Brad continues rambling, “Oh shit, you know what I always wanted to try? One of them dresses? Right? Would feel real, like, breezy and open? Hell yeah! Ooh, ooh! Or I’d be into like, a nice pair of jeans and a button up? Into that! Yeah, bud.”

Tan watches as Brad bounces around the store, turning and twirling and seemingly wanting to wear everything. It was exhausting just watching the man try to muster enough energy to focus on anything for more than a few seconds before the next bright colored shirt or patterned pant drew his attention.

Tan had to intervene and get this train back on the tracks. 

“Okay, Brad, love? Let’s just focus on some closet staples and maybe something for your date with Claire, remember?”

The mention of Claire’s name seemed to calm and focus him and Brad blushed at the word date. It was amazing to see what just saying the woman’s name could do to him.

“Yeah,” Brad said softly, eyes darting around the store. “Something nice for Claire.”

_____________

Antoni and Karamo double team him and they both look like the birds that got the canary and the cream. 

“I mean, you’re a professional chef, I really don’t know what it is I can teach you. Maybe you can teach me a thing or two!”

But there _is_ something Antoni can teach him.

“Actually, bub, there is something—“

“Ooh! Pray tell!”

Brad ducked his head and reached for his hat to adjust it out of nervous habit only to find empty air. He huffed. Jonathan had insisted on going the full week without it.

(“Honey! There is nothing here to be ashamed of! You are a damn fine looking man and, don’t get me wrong, you look good in the hat, but no hat?” He’d fake swooned and winked. “Claire won’t know what hit her.”)

The weekend had stopped being about him and started being about them—Brad and Claire. It felt better that way. If he could do this: wear the fancy clothes and take Claire to the museum exhibit on modern music Karamo showed him and fix up his hair and oil up his beard like Jonathan told him, maybe there would be a real _them_ , Brad and Claire the way he hoped they’d always end up. 

“I need you to teach me to make a cake.” He ignored Antoni’s look of surprise. Brad has been loudly vehement about his lack of sweet tooth, so it seems out of character for the man to be asking about cake. “I mean, not just any cake! It’s gotta be the best, kick you in the childhood memories, make you moan around the fork—“

He stopped, blushing. He hadn’t meant to say the last part. But Antoni nodded and smiled slyly at him while Karamo clapped excitedly.

“Alright, Chef, apron up. I’m going to show you how to make this French cake I had a lot growing up. It’s a really delicate sponge with this incredibly light, decadent whipped chocolate mouse.”

“It’s French?” Brad perked up, thinking about all the ways he could ask Claire to pronounce the different parts of the cake in French, imagining the way her lips would wrap around each vowel. “ _Perfect_. Antoni, you’re a fuckin’ mind reader.”

Antoni stared into the camera, holding in a laugh. It was easy to read Brad’s mind when there was only one person on it.

_____________

The end of the week comes quickly and the Fab 5 wish Brad luck as he tugs at his fine buttoned down shirt and tighter-than-normal jeans, hatless, and ready to meet Claire at the little old school Italian restaurant tucked away from the high street for their _date._

He can’t believe he’s going on a _date_ with Claire Saffitz. He thinks his nerves could eat him up and spit him out on the spot but it only takes thinking back to the way Claire had looked as she’d told the cameras exactly why she wanted to nominate him in the first place. The memory of her soft smile and pleased expression chased away the last remaining doubts as he hugs his newfound friends goodbye and grins at the camera crew.

“You guys _really_ don’t have to come for this part.”

But the executive producer just shakes her head, lifts the contract, and nods. “Oh but we do.”

_____________

Claire’s face when she sees a dressed up Brad waiting for her outside of the restaurant is enough to send his stomach vaulting through his esophagus, but he manages to swallow down the nerves and hold his arms out, twirling for Claire, opening up to her inspection.

“Whatcha think, Claire? Not bad, right? New and improved!”

She touches his collared shirt and, daringly, brushes the pads of her fingers over his trimmed beard, appreciatively. “I don’t know,” she speculates softly, eyes affectionate. “I liked you just the way you were. New? Sure. Improved? Impossible.”

Brad preens and blushes at the easy praise and wishes— _really_ wishes—he had his hat to fiddle with to distract his hands so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach for her. He falls back on his charm and rocks back on his heels. 

“Well, I was thinkin’ that we shouldn’t waste the new me out here on the street. Deserves a special showin.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. So, so you wanna maybe head on into _Cecilia’s_ with me and grab a drink or somethin’?”

She beams at him, eyes flicking to the camera crew just once nervously, before answering softly, “Thought you’d never ask.”

The camera watches them walk side-by-side into the restaurant, the backs of their hands brushing with each step. The boom mic catches the last of their conversation before the reception and connection are lost.

“Oh, claire, _look_ at these jeans Tan put me in. They’re called skinny jeans or some shit. What do you think?”

“They look pretty good,” she says, blushing. She won’t look at him in the eye, but Brad doesn’t quite notice, overeager and overexcited to share with her all the things the Fab 5 have taught him.

“And then Tan saw this picture of us in the my apartment and you’re wearing that leopard jumpsuit thing of yours and, well, we were out shoppin’ and bam! There’s this spotted shirt thing that looked just like yours and it felt like fate! So, all I’m sayin’ now Claire is we can totally match on shoot days, just say the word!”

It makes her laugh and this time, she doesn’t check the impulse to not lean against him as they walk into the restaurant towards their first date.

_____________

At the end of the date (a frankly fucking perfect date), Brad forgets everything Karamo tells him about being smooth and confident and instead fumbles around for the right _words_ to tell her how she makes him feel.

They’re standing under a streetlight on a nearly-empty street. He’s buzzed on the two old fashioneds he’d had at dinner and Claire’s cheeks are flushed from the wine she’d been steadily slipping and everything about tonight feels like the opening lines of a new chapter in their life.

And then it _clicks_.

She’s already given him the words he needs.

“Don’t you get it Claire? You’re the—the girl. _The_ girl.”

“Oh,” she breathes, watching mesmerized as Brad threads their hands together, strokes this thumb over the ridges of her knuckles.

For once, he doesn’t have to wonder what she’s thinking at all because she turns her face up to his and beams, a full wattage Claire Saffitz smile directed at him and for a second he can’t breathe, not between her hand in his and her smile and the way everything is blurring into the background leaving Claire in razor sharp focus.

“You did this for me? The restaurant and the museum exhibit and—”

“Even learned how to bake a cake for ya,” he teases, mouth quirking upwards. He nods and then gestures to the camera crew hovering delicately on the other side of the street. “You do that for me?”

She nods. 

“Why? Why didn’t you tell me, huh, Harvard?"

Claire licks her lips and Brad nearly groans with sheer _want_. “Because,” she says. “I want everyone to see you the way I do.”

He lifts a hand to her cheek, brushes a thumb over the curve of her cheek and marveling at the flush there. “I’m pretty fuckin’ happy if you’re the only one who sees me, Claire.”

And there’s no words after that, how could there be? She fists the fabric of the fancy shirt that Tan bought him in her hand and tugs him down while simultaneously pushing up onto her toes, lifting her mouth to his. 

He steadies her with a big warm hand at her hip as her knees buckle slightly, her weight pressing against him as Brad licks into her mouth, kissing her gently, searching and savoring.

It’s the first of many kisses, of many dates, of many firsts.

Together.

_____________

Thirty miles away in the Fab 5 penthouse, the cast and crew of Queer Eye erupt into cheers. The boys look into their camera and wipe tears from their eyes and raise a champagne flute up in toast.

“To Brad and Claire.”

Jonathan drains his glass and purses his lips, offering one last demand to the camera: “You better invite us to the wedding, honey!”


End file.
